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THE BARD OF INQLEJIDE, 

BY Vinton Vie. n^,„.^^ /^ 




' ^JUN 281890 






The groaning shelves may yet endure, 

A few more ounces, Pray make room. 

This may be heavy, — dullness, sure, 
Is leaden ; so, this, I presume. 



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INTRODUCTION. 



Ye gods and godesses ! assist my song. 

It would be sacreligious to begin 

A poem, and most blasphemously wrong, 

To dare to scale the Pierian heights — a sin, 

As henious as Prometheus, among 

The gods committed, when, if he had been 

Skilled in the modern boodler's art and culture. 

His liver ne'er had been food for the vulture. 



A sin, I mean, to scribble poetry. 
Without a formal invocation, first. 
Of the gods. History is said to be 
Philosophy, in which all should be versed. 
Teaching by methods used successfully, 
By all of the best teachers, and the worst ; 
Using examples; and, since no shrewd thief. 
Would, like Pometheus, be brought to grief. 

So I would use the light of history, 
And shun the ruts of literary mope ; 
Homer invokes the muse, and so must I, 
As fervently as Milton, and as Pope. 
Since Homer set the copy, I must try 
To imitate him, if I e'er would hope 
To shine a star, in the bright galaxy. 
That flashes in the literary sky. 

Both Pope and Milton supplicate the Muse, 

In such a solemn, serious, earnest way. 

That saints of Charles the Second's age, might use 

The formula, when they were wont to pray, 

And think it orthodox ; if I refuse 

To follow in the track of such as they, 

I would subject myself to the suspicion 

That I am not a'skilful rhetorician. 



Old Milton's muse must be a Christian ; he 

Bases his epic on events which are 

Inwoven with pure Christianity. 

For him to invoke a mythic muse, would mar 

Its unity and its consistency. 

However, it's a matter very far 

Remote from my design now, to inquire, 

Whether the Holy Spirit did inspire 

His poem or the Massagetic points. 

I relegate all points of controversy 

To theologians, since the Lord anoints 

So many new Apostles in his mercy. 

That in the Church machinery and its joints. 

There is much friction ; recently New Jersey 

Bred an Ex-Reverend, whom a crowded house 

Hailed as a comet — Pentecost turned Strauss. 

I do not want to be iconoclastic, 

Make innovations upon customs hoary, 

Appear original, nor be bombastic, 

I merely want to write a pretty story. 

Though some may say its morals need a drastic, 

And that it ne'er will bring me cash nor glory, 

I've no apology, I'm merely writing, 

What in my present mood my heart 's inditing. 

Men are by nature imitators; he 

Ranks as a genius who invents new forms 

For old thoughts, giving them vitality, 

And breathing his own soul into them, warms 

Them into life. To write good poetry 

Requires besides knights, heroes, battles, storms, 

An eye to see all nature teem with life, 

While men and elements engage in strife. 

Gay Dover had this sense as you will learn, 
Ere you have finished this, my narrative. 
Elves, nymphs, hobgoblins every where he'd turn. 
To him, winds, trees, skies, stars, hills, fields all live. 
Earth kisses heaven, and grass and shrub and fern, 
Their greeting with bright eyes and curls do give. 
'Tis this fine sense in which Homer excels, 
For 'tis a world of life in which he dwells. 
4 



The passions, feelings and emotions, all 
These have their. living reprcbentatives, 
Assuming forms divine; and what we call 
By ill name, onomatopoeia thrives 
In good Homeric soil. Nymphs rise and fall 
On land and sea, among the old Argives. 
But in an age as practical as ours, 
Men sneer at all these tutelary powers, 

Brooking not even one ; so poetry 

Seems doomed to be soon one of the lost arts. 

Milton was wont to say that even he 

Was born too late ; Macaulay thinks the parts, 

Needed to make a poet also flee 

Before civilization ; the siern hearts 

Of men become less prone to superstition, 

And hold the supernatural in derision. 

The schoolboy doubts that yEolus could hold 
The winds inclosed within a mountain cave. 
Or that Poseidon with his span of gold, 
Outstretched his trident and could still the wave. 
Or even of Jason and the Argo ; told 
To modern youths, these pretty stories have 
A savor of too much credulity. 
Among our good old Grecian ancestry. 

But I, if I expect the muse to smile 

On this my flight, my history must explore, 

To find a siege, so that I may beguile 

Those who want murder, tragedy or gore 

To think my poem written in good style. 

And worthy of perusal; since before 

Me, Homer sang of Troy, and Virgil harped. 

On the same string, and critics carped, 

I must turn elsewhere ; and since Greece and Rome 
Are threadbare ; Milton rifled even Heaven 
And Hell, and Shakspeare man's own heart, the tone 
Of Byron, Cupid's fakes, while others leaven 
Their lump with satire, chivalry, the foam 
Of flowing bowl, there can be no replevin, 
If I upon a siege somewhat more recent 
Should fix ; you'd say "it would be just as decent." 
5 



Homer can justly claim to have no peer, 
He ranks as Primus inter paros, or 
He rather doth monopolize the sphere 
Of Epic Poetry. Virgil of yore 
Tasso and Milton, how e'er good, are mere 
Imitators, though masters of all lore. 
And though they tasted the Castalian rill, 
Yet were they lacking in inventive skill. 

They have created nought entirely new, 
The final test of all true poetry. 
The poet is a maker, and all true 
Poets must meet this dictum, or must be 
Omitted from among the favored few 
Who wear the bays of immorality ; 
As Epic poets, they cannot rank first. 
Although their poems may not be the worst. 

The L' Allegro and \\ Penseroso, 
Alone, would give to Milton the high claim. 
To rank as a great poet; and, although 
His Epic won for him a deathless name. 
Yet it lacks one essential, as all know, 
And has this one dark stain on its fair fame; 
While he gives to the former, form and matter. 
He merely shapes the matter in the latter. 

Great poets are the masters in their line, 
'Tis not the form in which they do excel, 
But 'tis the quality; Shakspeare's divine, 
And won the poet's laurels, just as well 
As those who sang of sieges, love and wine 
The fate of Pope should all your doubts dispel. 
His subjects are invariable prosy. 
And yet his hopes for glory are still rosy. 

'Tis as a satirist he won his laurels, 
And demonstrated poetry cannot 
Be circumscribed by all of authors' quarrels. 
Within the compass in which some have sought 
To shut it ; wit, philosophy and morals, 
And any theme in the great realm of thought. 
Can wake a string upon the poet's lyre ; 
And rightfully the poet's song inspire. 
6 



Critics do not make poetry, else Byron, 

Whose sad lyre stirs us with its piteous wail, 

Had never sung, sweeter than ever siren 

Sung, in his Harold and each Turkish tale. 

Seas, mountains, skies and all that doth environ 

The creatures whose mean falseness made him rail 

Against his kind, till every note of woe. 

Sounds in the melting strains which from him flow. 

Poets should aim to please ; instruction is 

Subordinate to beauty in their art. 

By pathos, satire, humor, reveries 

And all the moods that captivate the heart ; 

They may repel or win, disgust or please. 

While they may knowledge, facts and truth impart. 

Their object should be through these to excite, 

Arouse and move the feelings as they write. 

Rhythm and meter cannot take the place 

Of feeling, or of passion. Verse must stir 

The soul to its profoundest depths ; its grace 

Contributes to this end; hence, I prefer 

His method, though a smile comes o'er Holmes' face. 

When he recalls how rhymers blot and blur 

Their page, since hampered by the paucity. 

Of English words for rhyme and harmony. 

Israel's sweet singer pours forth his full soul. 
In floods of melody, thanksgiving, praise; 
When he his wounded spirit would console. 
He strings his harp, evoking tuneful lays ; 
And the despairing moods nought could control. 
Yield to the sorcery that harp displays. 
And all the world becomes a fitting theme 
For sacred lyre and sacred poet's dream. 

So Job sought comfort and he found relief. 
And deemed it not a useless waste of time. 
To give expression to his woe and grief. 
In shape of studied meter, rhythm and rhyme ; 
And gave us sketches of himself, though brief, 
The world of letters joins to call sublime; 
Surely such work can not be frivolous, 
When minds like this deemed it not idleness. 
7 



So I'm endeavoring in my humble mode, 

To give you a true story of the day; 

'T will lead us to a somewhat noted road, 

Perhaps more famous than the Appian way. 

Through jealousies, begotten by the code, 

Through some adventures, blood, and there, I'll stay 

My pen, till I've another inspiration. 

Befitting one of my age, tastes and station. 

Gay Dover was an interested spectator 
Of these remarkable haps and mishaps. 
No great event from Pole unto Equator, 
Or any other site upon the maps, 
Escaped his notice, if 't was in the paper; 
And he allowed but little time to lapse, 
Til] he had rummaged his Geography, 
To find its history and topography. 

And now, O muse, once more I invocate 
Thy aid. O'er-shadow me with that blest spell. 
Which thou to bards did'st once communicate. 
Who loved within thy hallowed hands to dwell. 
While I in numbers aim to sing the fate 
Of one whom such sad incidents befell ; 
String thou my lyre, that with a master's hand. 
Its strains may fall as from thy Choral band. 




(^anto I. 



Gay Dover was about to make, what those 
Who have an eye for the poetical, 
Would call a voyage on a sea, where blows 
A gale, which if 'twere not heretical, 
I'd call the source of all the author's woes ; 
But since in lecturers catechetical. 
We're taught that all our miseries arise, 
Not as the Doctors say, from eating pies, 

But from the eating of forbidden fruit. 
Though by the Doctors fruit is not forbidden, 
But recommended beyond any root. 
From which the chemist takes the virtues hidden. 
Those panaceas good for man and brute. 
Soothing the aches and ills of the bed-ridden. 
And acting as the best preventives, too, — 
But whether this be fanciful or true, 

'Tis sure an author has his share of trouble, 
If Coleridge and some others speak the truth. 
Some critics think that he makes almost double 
As much as other people, more, in sooth. 
Especially if he glean, not merely stubble, 
But the pure golden grain, like lovely Ruth, 
But M'aiving questions of mere speculation. 
As all unworthy of consideration, 
9 



Gay Dover came at last to the conclusion, 

To launch his bark upon an untried sea. 

He saw the clouds in wild and dark confusion, 

Of course he then felt some anxiety ; 

lie knew that it was not a mere illusion. 

And stroked his long hair somewhat nervously ; 

He knew that in the air a storm was brewing, 

As you would know the cuckoo by its cooing. 

When a new volume issues from the press, 
There 's sure to be a storm, you can expect it. 
'Tis only old thoughts clothed in a new dress ; 
And if it does not fit, you can reject it. 
Some authors very frequently digress. 
Although none but the critics can detect it. 
Another gladly welcomes the new comer, 
And calls him the best poet since old Homer. 

"He's drank deep draughts from Shakspeare and from Job, 

Whose panting war-horse neighs, and snorts and paws. 

And from the bard who wore a purple robe, 

Who wisdom asked, not riches nor applause. 

Perhaps no dart e'er struck through either lobe 

Of his white liver, whatsoe'er the cause, 

In wine and mid-night brawls, he never revels; 

The image there reflected is the devil's. 

His poetry is merely self-expression, 
His own emotions painted in poor verse. 
An honest, plain, outspoken, clear confession 
Of his own guilt, in language crisp and terse, 
With here and there a long and strange digression. 
His scenes and characters might all be worse. 
There 's good in all men just as there is bad, 
The latter fact is sad but true, though sad. 

A man or woman who had reached perfection. 
Would be no longer mortal flesh and blood. 
'Tis a rare art to make aright selection. 
They should not be too bad nor yet too good. 
If too good, then we rightly make objection, 
They are not real, just as clay 's not mud. 
While men are men, let them as men be painted; 
With such, though not with angels we're acquainted. 

lO 



His spirit, subtle and ethereal, 

Is like the spider's web of silver gauze ; 

More fit for realms and climes aerial, 

Than for a world, like this, where every cause 

Has an effect, though not funereal. 

And all is regulated by fixed laws ; 

Just as the story of the Prodigal, 

'Tis only sad and yet methodical. 

We firmly hold it is a degradation, 

Of poetry, to put such commonplace 

In verse, where Fancy and Imagination, 

Are more important than much art and grace. 

Prose is the only proper decoration. 

Of human thought. Men never can efface 

A law that is engraven on the heart, 

By any polish, ornament or art. 

It is not best in morals nor in fiction. 

To paint the evil passions all aglow ; 

On vice and crime there must be some restriction, 

Or else those things which are as pure as snow, 

By shrewd and well manipulated diction, 

May be employed to give a fatal blow, 

To unfledged youth, whose great vivacity 

Excels their purity and veracity. 

'Tis in this way the Bible portrays vice, 
Painting with master hand full many a sketch ; 
As where the unchaste spouse tried to entice, 
The wary Joseph, who rebuked the wretch. 
Or David, to be plain, and yet precise, 
Against Uriah, did his arm outstretch; 
Lured by a pretty face and figure, slew 
An unsuspecting husband good and true. 

'Tis only by the shrewd and proper use 
Of living, breathing, acting characters, 
With illustrations timely and profuse. 
To which the memory readily recurs. 
And not by logic, frigid and abstruse. 
Which your cold controversialist prefers. 
That you can win attention and impress 
The truths, on which men lay the greatest stress." 
II 



So Gay, upon the wide and restless sea 

Of Authorship, with some concern embarks ; 

Yet sink or swim, he launched forth manfully 

Upon the foaming waves, and if the sharks 

Devour him not in their voracity, 

As doth the hungry hawk, the singing larks, 

He hopes to breast the storm and all the tides. 

As o'er the ruffled sea he boldly rides 

The day on airy pinions sped away. 

That first long day of waiting and suspense ; 

The smiling Phoebus could no longer stay, 

And, bidding earth good-night, the void immense 

Becomes a shower of sparks, which we survey 

With awe-struck vision ; but 'mid Gay's "intense 

Anxiety, his poem's fate to know. 

The flight of time to him was all too slow. 

The above excerpts are but a chosen few. 

Clipped from the magazines to show the drift 

Of editorial sentiment, as to 

The merits of his verse ; but if you sift 

Them, looked at from such diverse points of view, 

You could not from such hints, predict the thrift 

That marked his future eminent career. 

Though he was never charged with stealing deer. 

Old night then threw her mantle o'er the earth. 
That sombre shroud that robs the meads and vales 
Of their rich hues, and checks the spirit's mirth ; 
And like the cloud which brought a shower of quails 
Unto the Israelites, in their sad dearth. 
Amid this waste of murmurings and of wails. 
Is somewhat like some poems, soporific 
Upon the nerves, that source of ills prolific. 

The silver-throated bird retires to rest. 
Perched on the boughs of some old oak or willow ; 
His head beneath his wing, without a nest, . 
And there all cosily, without a pillow, 
He sleeps ; and when by nature's own behest. 
Across the ethereal sea, the light doth billow. 
He wakes and pours forth floods of melody, 
And greets the blushing dawn with notes of glee 

12 



The hen then gathers 'neath her nestling wings. 
Her tender brood, a scene which for all ages, 
Was traced upon the canvas, where it clings 
As firm, as when the greatest of all sages, 
Placed it among the few immortal things, 
That brightly glow upon the hallowed pages 
Of sacred story, better than " read" sermons, 
For sinners, or Americans or Germans. 

Tis then a kind of awe creeps o'er the veins, 
A kind of fear or dread enwraps the soul. 
We seem to think that spectres haunt the lanes, 
The by-ways and the solitary knoll, 
We shudder, and the blood flies to our brains, 
As when men drain the intoxicating bowl. 
The bodies of the dead seem to infest 
Our path, and terrify the fearful beast, 

'Tis then the solitary swain doth leave 

The plow, the sickle and the garnered grain, 

And hies to where some rustic child of Eve 

Beams cheer around, in darkness or in rain; 

And the rapt ears of passers by receive, 

The thrilling music of her siren strain. 

As by the unresisting kine she bends, 

And from the udders which the milk distends. 

Presses with a tight clasp the snowy stream. 
Into the foaming pail which stands beneath. 
Sometimes the strain is broken by a scream. 
If some intruding fly from o'er the heath. 
Attracted by the fragrance, so *t would seem, 
Alighting draws his sting out of its sheath, 
And thrusting it into the tender nerves. 
The cow resents it as it well deserves. 

At an embarrassing moment such as this. 
Gay unexpected stepped upon the scene. 
He would have smoothed her temper with a kiss. 
She looked so beautiful at seventeen. 
Had he not feared so tart and pert a Miss 
Would deem such conduct rather soft and green, 
And then she seemed so vexed and mortified. 
Had she been less a woman she'd have cried. 
13 



The rose-blush on her crimsoned velvet cheek. 
Was but the image of the brilliant glow, 
Kindled by health's bright fires, which those who seek 
The balm and strength that rural scenes bestow. 
Can testify. How they build up the weak, 
And give new vigor to the strong all know, 
And Clyda nursed in such an atmosphere. 
Health's cup was full of rural mirth and cheer. 

Upon the grassy lawns and meads she played. 

When but a little cherub child so sweet, 

The golden ringlets o'er her forehead strayed, 

A broad and lofty brow for age more meet. 

The playful sparkle of her eye betrayed 

The genial humor and the passionate heat 

Of her warm nature, and her angel face 

Was round and plump and shone with queenly grace. 

Oft to the neighboring woods and hills she hied. 
To gather wild flowers; and along the rill 
Which chattered through the meadow by the side 
Of the quaint barn, that stood beneath the hill, 
She gathered shells and pebbles, which with pride 
She used to adorn the little shelves and fill 
The little cabinet, against the wall, 
Where were her curiosities and doll. 

She was a child of mother nature's rearing. 

On hills and fields and forests wild, she found 

The stimulation of the pure air cheering 

The languid circulation till its bound 

Whirled the rich crimson tide no hindrance fearing. 

To every pore in its long sinuous round. 

And left its trace in the full, compact form 

Well rounded, shapely, passionately warm. 

No need to tell her what her mirror told her. 
That she was lovlier than a rose full-blown. 
So perfect was she, that when she grew older 
There was a sweetness even in her frown, 
Though she could not endure to have you scold her. 
She was a very queen without a crown, 
The rainbow's arch is not of mould more rare 
Than her full snow-white bosom, pure as fair. 
14 



The nutrient food that loads the rustic board, 

The active use of all the body's powers, 

With the facilities the fields aflord 

For the employment of the leisure hours, 

Where the bright sunshine and the air accord 

With leaves and grass and dews and fruits and flowers, 

To give full vigor unto the physique 

And glow of April dawn unto the cheek 

W^ere hers to enjoy, and hence in form and feature, 
She was symmetrical, artistic, neat. 
A gentle, tender, amiable creature, 
Of disposition, loving, warm and sweet. 
Perhaps, without exception she would meet your 
Own beau ideal of that pure, complete 
And charming type of beauty, which above 
All others stimulates and nurtures love. 

She was domestic in her tastes ; the home 
Which made her childhood full of sweet delir)ht, 
Was the abode of all the joys that come 
Fx^om cords that bind and do two souls unite 
In perfect concord, and though there are some 
W^ho think that butter, eggs and meat excite 
The passions, yet her parents gave her these. 
With cream and butter milk as well as cheese. 

They did not think a vegetable diet 

W' as in itself sufficient for a child. 

They did not think a sickly, pale and quiet 

Thin spectre was less apt to be defiled, 

Or less disposed to wassail and to riot. 

Or to be giddy and a little wild, 

Than a well-fed, well-nourished specimen 

Of generous living, 'mong the upper ten. 

Nor were they narrow in their views of what 
Is best adapted to the youthful mind. 
Had that Kaleidoscope, the Bible, nought 
Else to commend it, you can nowhere find, 
A book that is from lid to lid so fraught 
With things that charm and interest mankind, 
Childhood and age alike, as that old book 
As clear and limpid as a meadow brook. 
15 



A volume of continuous narration, 

Where living men and women act their part. 

Scenes and events with such a variation, 

That they at once do captivate the heai't. 

Image and metaphor and illustration 

Are interspersed with so much skill and art, 

That they enchain the attention, and the child 

To learning and to knowledge is beguiled. 

To books constructed with such art as this. 

She had continual access ; and, to her 

A charming volume was a source of bliss. 

She would sometimes but not always prefer 

A book, to all sweet things except a kiss. 

And where environment and taste concur, 

A child who sucks the honey from good books, 

Has merits though she may not have good looks. 

Her mother was a woman who aspired 

To something more pretentious than the farm 

Could furnish for her daughter; she desired 

To have her polished, 't would increase the charm 

That lurked in her bright eye ; She'd be admired 

By cultured people ; she felt no alarm 

But that her daughter could make an impression 

Were she away at school but for one session. 

It should be so; Clyda should go to school, 
A child so gifted and of traits so rare 
Was born, like other petticoats to rule. 
If one so young, so promising and fair, 
Could regulate her feelings and keep cool. 
Her natural endowments surely were 
Such as would fit her better for high place 
Than would her exquisitely pretty face. 

Gay Dover at this period was enrolled 
At a young seat of learning of some fame, 
His brilliant eye and thoughtful brow both told, 
Of talents lurking in that slender frame. 
And though he seemed in manner somewhat cold, 
Yet were his feelings warm and high his aim, 
Nothing could his peculiar tastes more please 
Than reading Homer and Demosthenes. 
i6 



For fiction he had a keen appetite, 
And he devoured it with the greatest zest, 
He sat up till the wee small hours of night. 
Curtailing very much his needed rest. 
Altliough he knew such conduct was not right 
And that it would not in the end be best 
For his own progress, yet his high ambition 
Could not be slaked except on this condition. 

His lessons occupied the day's short hours, 

With Greek and Latin nouns, pronouns and verbs, 

Things suited to develop the mind's pov/ers, 

But lacking inteirest-; all such study curbs 

The bent of genius; better mingle flowers 

Amid the thorns and other noxious herbs. 

Shakspeare, Scott, Byron, Hawthorne and Macaulay 

Are pleasant antidotes for youthful folly. 

Gay Dover when a child to works of fiction, 

Was quite a stranger; Hence the eager relish 

With which he bolted them ; the deep conviction 

That all this sort of literature is hellish. 

Had led to the paternal interdiction 

Of such light trash, as unfit to embellish 

The shelves of a pure library ; so Gay 

Must be content, with Milton, Young and Gray. 

These never had attracted his attention 
In tender years, though bound in one thick tome, 
The first book that he read worthy of mention. 
Contained enomaiums of Greece and Rome, 
Those lands which rent by strife and by dissension. 
And once the radiating seat and home 
Of science, art and literary glory. 
Are so familiar in all classic story. 

These, and some lectures on the Prophecies 
Of the bright Jewish lad, whose strange career, 
Led through the Lions' den 'mong the Chaldees, 
Till as Prime Minister he had no peer 
And a diviner of great mysteries, 
W'ere his companions, and though it is queer, 
He read the Bible most in Commentaries, 
Which may be found in almost all libraries. 
17 



Yet one more volume should not be omitted, 
It left its impress easy to be traced 
Upon his character; it also fitted 
Him to appreciate his time and waste 
No moment ; and if ever he acquitted 
Himself with credit, 'twas because, his taste 
For reading it intensely stimulated. 
And his desire for knowledge cultivated. 

'T was Todd's old student's manual that fired 
His breast ; then also the religious news. 
Weekly and semi-monthly, came attired 
In sombre robes to castigate the muse 
For her transgressions, because she aspired 
To other heights and coldly would refuse. 
To be thus shackled by a sect or creed, 
And would no solemn admonitions heed. 

The daily news, especially the Gazette, 
Sometimes as well the Post and the Dispatch, 
He read in Book stores and did not forget 
To peer at items such as the last match. 
High life in Washington and with regret. 
Would pass from news political, to snatch 
A hurried glance at the obituary 
Of some distinguished dead cotemporary. 

He never was too fond of early rising, 
Though from his childhood he had often heard. 
How late hours and excessive gormandizing 
Injure the health, aad that the early bird 
Catches the worm, yet he was compromising, 
And sometimes he would wake, get up and gird 
His loins, before the sun would show his face. 
Joyful as a strong man to run a race. 

In the still hours before the crimson sky 

Exposed her sallow cheek to the warm kiss 

Of flushed Aurora, and before the Eye 

Of Day had melted from the vast abyss 

Of space, the robe of tenuous gauze which high 

O'er the chill earth, the night had wove, that bliss 

Of slumber might on wakeful eyelids fall, 

Gay Dover often heard the alarm's shrill call. 



And oft responded with alacrity, 
Depending on his humor when he woke, 
Sometimes arising very cheerfully. 
At others yawning, stretching ere he broke 
The stillness with a sigh. He once at three 
Leaped out and struck a light, and to provoke 
Still more, his room-mate, who was in a rage, 
He got a book and read page after page. 

Soon all was silence ; his mate fell asleep 
And left him to enjoy his reverie 
A shudder that o'er every nerve did creep 
Seized his whole frame almost convulsively 
When a coarse whistle's sound, so broad and deep 
Broke on the stillness 'mid his ecstasy, 
Like the first blare of Gabriel's trumpet on 
The horror-stricken beings pale and wan 

Who newly risen from their beds of dust, 

Gaze on the blazing skies all wrapped in flames, 

Darting their lambent tongues to lick the crust 

Of earth, from whence one sea of fire that claims 

Near kindred with the lurid bolts now thrust 

From the almighty arm laid bare, soon aims 

Its heavenward course while rocks and mountains reel, 

Topple and fall with noise of thunder peal. 

'Twas from a rolling-mill below the place, 

And not the voice of demons as at first 

You might imagine, ere he showed his lace. 

Nor shnek of Indian war-whoop from a cursed 

Inhabitant of nether fires in chase 

Of his white foe ; nor dying roar that burst 

From the choked throat of the mad king of beasts. 

Nor shout of mob at Saturnalian feasts. 

The same deep hollow sound was nightly borne. 
Like the sad plaintive wail of Rachel, when 
For her children she was heard to mourn 
Across the sleeping landscape, though till then 
It was a stop among those that adorn 
The world's^great oi-gan, known to workingmen, 
But by young Gay a key unheard as yet, 
A tremolo whose tone he'd ne er forget. 
19 



'Tis strange but just now from the Allegheny 

And opposite my window comes a sound, 

You could distinguish trom among the many 

That fly upon the wind and then rebound 

From the steep blufif, which if there could be any 

Natural object like it to be found 

Resembles a huge serpent stretched lengthwise, 

Upon the banks, prone, of enormous size. 

The whistle of the Nellie Hudson plying 

The dark green waters with her crew and freight 

Is not unlike it, though the clarifying 

Stillness of night, makes the sound penetrate 

The deeper chambers of the soul, the sighing 

Of the bleak winds can never emulate 

The doleful music of that wild, weird strain 

That broke amid the darkness on his brain. 

That melancholy sound calls forth from sleep 
Upon a couch though hard, yet restful, sweet. 
The men of brawn who, though they toil, yet reap 
What, oft the millionaire, amid the heat 
And strife of business can't command nor keep. 
While cares like storms do mercilessly beat 
About his head — power like the guileless child 
To sink its petty cares in slumber mild. 

Before the light pencils the Eastern sky, 

The sooty laborer without coat or vest, 

In shirt of flannel, Math the sweat scarce dry, 

Sitsbythe frugal board to share the best 

The scanty larder yields or he can buy; 

His morning meal, into the shape compressed 

Of coffee, beefsteak, with some bread and butter 

About whose strength he oft is heard to mutter. 

At such an hour. Gay Dover too was making 
His morning's rich repast ; he sipped the wine 
Of Chaucer as an appetizer, taking 
Small draughts, so that when he should come to dine 
On the strong meat, he'd have no fear of breaking 
The laws of Mental Hygiene, and combine 
The lighter and the more substantial foods. 
Without indulging merely his own moods. 
20 



He pondered much the truths of history, 

Eager to know the thoughts and deeds of men, 

The light they throw upon the mystery 

Of human life ; men who could wield the pen 

Or sword ; in Senate or Consistory; 

Great characters like meteors, which when 

They cast their light across the radiant sky, 

The world is dazzled by their brilliancy. 

It is a mirror where the transitory 
Nature of all things earthly we behold ; 
How quickly fading is all human glory ! 
How even rust dnth canker the pure gold! 
How even on the field of battle gory, 
The hero's deeds are all too quickly told ! 
Forgotten 'mid the plaudits and the shouts 
That greet the rising sun from idle routs. 

The source of much of his anxiety 

Was, that he had so little time to read; 

And not the chill which early piety 

Is said in ardent temperaments to breed; 

It seemed he had such a variety 

Of things to claim his time that he would need 

The years of a Methusaleh, to do 

What he had planned and wished to carry throui 

He saw a wide interminable plain 

Stretched out before him of ten thousand fields. 

Waving like one vast sea of golden grain. 

Each one of which a separate harvest yields. 

All so inviting that he racked his brain 

To choose among them, but at last he wields 

The poet's pen, though history and fiction 

Might have been brought within his jurisdict 

He leaps in that arena for its laurels. 
Which are so fascinating in their hue ; 
But not to show his mettle in the quarrels 
Of athletes or of gladiators who 
C-ontend about the merits and the morals 
Of rivals, while the glorious prize in view 
Is won by him who watches close the goal. 
With steady purpose and determined soul. 

21 



ion. 



Of histories we have a few well-written, 
Like Livy, Tacitus and Gibbon's Rome; 
Macaulay when the muse gave him the mitten 
Found the asthmatic skeleton at home, 
And photographed him at a single sittin' ; 
The frontis-piece of uncompleted tome, 
Distorting with an ill-adjusted lens, 
An honest face like good old William Penn's. 

And Gibbon caricatures Christianity; 

Hurling his polished shafts of ridicule, 

He strains to show the utter vanity. 

Of the known claim, that it is not the rule, 

And would be nothing but profanity 

To say it, or the frothings of a fool. 

For any new religion thus to spread; 

And though he marches with his pompous tread 

Across its prostrate form as if to crush 
The life from out its bleeding pores, yet he 
Has failed, the silly prating mob to hush, 
Who raise this outcry on Christianity 
Which, rising from the dread encounter, flush 
With victory, if it needs a further plea 
In its behalf, wants an apologist 
Who is a Christian Archceologist. 

Then there are some who have found fault with Grote, 

Complaining of his style as too prosaic 

And not as lucid as of him \y\io wrote 

The Biblical account of the Mosaic 

Cosmogony, and there is none of note 

Who has attempted to give the Romaic 

A master's touch; Herodotus has done 

For Greece what monuments had never won. 

Some say Hume lacks in dignity and writes 
A childish sentence, that is not well-rounded; 
His history to me kind of excites 
A vague suspicion, he was not well-grounded 
In the old faith. His jibes and flings and bites 
At Christianity are not well-founded; 
He had been a more logical debater 
Perhaps, had he not been a Christian hater. 

22 



Bancroft's elaborate work creates the impression 

Of a romance or poem, rich in thought, 

Both eloquent and florid in expression 

And every paragraph and sentence fraught 

With useful facts. By the concise compression 

Of his material, and, omitting nought 

Of general or enduring worth, he finished 

A tome, whose glory time leaves undiminished. 

His polished pen records a nation's birth, 
A young Republic rising in the West, 
To shine a bright example to the earth, 
That freedom is no idle boast nor jest — 
No theme for tyrants, mockery and mirth, 
But to mankind down-lrodden and oppressed, 
A star, like that which led the Magi to 
The cradle of the heaven-descended Jew. 

But you perhaps will soon begin to wonder 
Why young Gay Dover did not fall in love 
With that sweet creature, whom no other under 
The sun could match in charms, and as a dove 
So gentle, mild and soft, you do not blunder 
On such a lovely nymph sent from above 
Just every day — her mother's favorite child 
Of beauty pure and morals undefiled. 

'Twould be no use to strike the deep-toned lyre. 
Without a female character or two. 
There must be something to enkindle fire 
Or passion in the kindly breast, or you 
W^ould fling aside my poem or soon tire. 
Which would make me at least, feel rather blue. 
The best romance without a single female 
Would be as flat as most of ginger ale. 

And if she were not beautiful, yes and 
Just exquisitely, indescribably 
Bewitching, charming, lovely, she would stand 
No chance with her competitors to be 
Wooed and besought both for her heart and hand, 
By worthy suitors like bees round a tree 
Where they have swarmed; but she as I have said, 
Was just as beautiful as girls are made. 
23 



All sweet as honey in their best girl's presence 

Assenting in the softest tones to all 

She says. As smooth as glass; the very essence 

Of true gentility; what you might call 

Idolators; and in the effervescence 

Of feeling, they are quite constrained to fall 

At the dear charmer's feet. "I die without you 

I worship you. I shall go mad about you." 

Conjecturing all her wants until they get her, 

Then not evincing such acute prevision, 

When they will sometimes much prefer to let her 

Wait on herself, and with all due precision 

Remind her, that 'twould be a great deal better 

In order to avoid any collision. 

If she would stoop and pick up her own glove; 

"And mine, too you may reach me now, my dove." 

Her eyes were blue, a rich pellucid blue 
Of course — blue as the clearest shade of sky 
In a transparent atmosphere. 'Twould do 
Injustice to her, should I say her eye 
Could be described by any other hue, 
And beaming with expression, merrily, 
So that you felt that there was tenderness, 
In her full soul now gushing forth to bless. 

She could not do enough for one endeared, 
And though she spoke in accents soft and sweet, 
They ill conveyed the sentiments which cheered 
The hearer, as they welled forth light to greet 
Him. Who confided in her never feared 
She would betray the trust. If you should meet 
Her, she would instantly be recognized, 
You'd by her countenance be magnetized. 

There were great depths of love in her great soul, 
So high it was the clouds enwreathed its summit; 
Like the great oceans which around us roll. 
You could not sound it with a line nor plummet, 
And on your misery she gently stole 
By unsuspected wiles to overcome it. 
She saw your troubles, and thus in disguise 
Unearthing them, the healing balm applies. 
24 



She knew that every heart is sometimes sad, 
Whether from natural causes or the things 
With which we come in contact; we are glad 
When our exhilaration also springs 
From a mysterious source, and Clyda had 
A shrewdness to detect the mood that brings 
Its train of melancholy, and asserted 
Her power in ways and efforts to avert it. 

She made you feel that there was nothing dearer 

To her than your own happiness; you felt 

In her magnetic presence, you were nearer 

To heaven than you had been since you had knelt 

At your own mother's knee, or to be clearer, 

Her heart beneath the warmth of love would melt. 

And if in a responsive mood she found you. 

With ecstasy she threw her arms around you. 

Love like the lake must have an outlet ; give 

Of its own self or be like the Dead Sea, 

A bitter pool, where nought can ever live; 

It must flow forth or lose its purity; 

And if you should be somewhat sensitive 

As to propriety, you will agree 

For this strange freak, or outburst to excuse her ; 

She's young, remember, how can you refuse her? 

A Female College would be most secure 

For one whose character as yet remained 

To be developed as she would mature. 

And since her morals were as yet unstained, 

And that she might be where nought might allure 

Her from the faith in which she had been trained. 

Her mother sent her to a Seminary 

W'here she would be under strict watch, yes, very. 

The sexes there were strictly separated 
Contrary to the rule, that 'tis not good 
For man to be alone, and though not stated, 
The inference is that unwed maidenhood 
Is equally to be expostulated 

Against. Yet 'twas quite generally i;nderstood. 
That all the older Colleges were closed 
To females and toward them not well disposed. 
25 



In the wise Past, women had been content 
To keep themselves within their proper sphere, 
To i-ock the cradle. Woman's realm then meant 
The kitchen. But in this fast age, the dear 
Angelic creatures, deem that they were sent 
To hasten the millenium; and beer 
And even wine, the theme of rhapsodies 
Among the bards, are Satan's agencies. 

The liospel fails to reach the hearts of men, 
And men are too corrupt to rule the State; 
Let women do the preaching, we will then 
Have two attractions to anticipate 
When we would worship, and there will be ten 
Male pew-holders for every one to date ; 
Put woman at the helm and politics 
And purity for the first time will mix. 

Our honest forefathers could not foresee 

This state of things, and hence made no provision 

For the strong-minded women who would be 

The advocates of legal Prohibition 

To read Law, Medicine, Divinity, 

And seek preferment, honor and position, 

In the same paths which men had set apart 

For their own profit, talent, skill and art. 

Co-education was not then approved 

By leading lights among the educators, 

A prejudice not yet wholly removed. 

Had led the bachelors and the woman-haters, 

To preach the heresy that it behoved 

Women to marry and continue waiters 

Upon their husbands and not supersede 

Their lords in work of which themselves had need. 

So woman was debarred from institutions 
Where men secure the weapons, with which they 
Fight life's hard battles; till the revolutions 
Of time, which wrought some changes in the way 
Of education by the contributions 
Of some few men, atoned for long delay, 
In furnishing an opportunity 
For woman to make sure of a degree. 
26 



Clyda's strong-minded mother much preferred 
The institutions of established fame, 
Of whose facilities the world has heard, 
Believing there is something in a name, 
And her fond father heartily concurred 
In this opinion. But they could not claim 
The advantages which these afford as theirs, 
Because they had been blessed with no male heirs. 

Her mother wanted no inferior training 
To blight her daughter's genius, so she said, 
And that nought might prevent her from attaining 
To eminence, the books that she had read 
Were such as spurred her to excel, containing 
The counsels of her sisters, who were bred 
In poverty, but who by high endeavor, 
Had won a fame that would endure forever. 

But knowing it was useless to apply 
At Colleges whose doors were open to 
The sterner sex, alone, she thought to try 
A Ladies' Seminary, which she knew 
Had good instructors and a standard high 
As many Colleges that men pass through, 
And then the government was something very 
Important and indeed exti'aordinary. 

Then, this one had the best facilities. 

For making all things clear to obtuse youth, 

No ordinary merit ; mysteries 

There are in all the thousand fields of truth 

That puzzle and perplex a mind that is 

Not quick to grasp, what Genius, in sooth 

May deem quite plain, but which a common mind 

Is apt incomprehensible to find. 

And all the latest apparatus for 
Experiments in science ; cabinets 
With specimens of minerals and more [gets, 

Rc>cks, shells and things whose names the Muse for- 
Than you would care to hear or I to bore 
You with ; and birds and plants whose epithets 
'T would be an education to remember; 
And thither Clyda started in September. 
27 



Of course she went through an examination 
And the dear girl became so nervous, she 
Almost forgot her previous education. 
But the kind gentlemen of the Faculty 
Knew from experience her situation, 
And passed her as though she knew perfectly 
A great deal more than rigid rules required. 
Of those who to admission there aspired. 

A little French, some German and some Latin, 
Of Course she studied, Music and belle-lettres. 
Especially the latter. She thought that in 
An edwcation, it would be far better 
For those whose thoughts were more on silk and satin 
Than on the old dead languages that fetter 
The powers of which in this age science should 
Afford the needed nutriment and food — 

She, as I said, thought what all wise men know 
The age demands. Dead languages she thought 
Had had their day. Some centuries ago 
The Greek and Latin languages were taught 
Because they were the resorvoirs whence flow 
The deepest streams of thought and there was nought 
Else so important, to be known by those 
Who then as scholars and savants would pose. 

But in the tongue in which a Shakspeare wrote, 
Are models that surpass in all respects 
All that both Greece and Rome have set afloat 
Upon the stream of thought. The intellects 
That in our own tongue gave us works of note 
Are those the modern classic course neglects, 
Giving us Latin and Greek cobblers while 
Our want is masters of good English style. 

And there are the rich fields which science spreads 
Before our gaze, alike left unexplored, 
Uncultivated, since Boeotian heads 
Pronounce it ill adapted to afford 
Us mental discipline ; the light it sheds, 
Is dim compared with the rich treasures stored 
In the old Classics, but young Clyda's notions 
Diverged somewhat from those of these Boeotians. 
28 



But then her tutors said she must not think 
Herself too wise ; that older heads than she 
Had deemed it best for callow youth to dnnk 
?x^m Classic springs. What sages all agree 
To recommend, it is a waste of i^k 
To decry; but gentle reader, there must be 
An end to all things save a ^i^'^lj so 
With your consent the pleasure 1 11 forego. 

Of versifying, till a season more 
Convenient. It is natural to postpone 
Whlt'should be done to-day or e-n before, 
Till, well-forever, as may now be shoun. 
Without your kind approval I H ^^oih^re 
Vou in the future, as 'tis quite well U own 
Without the general public's favor writing 
BecomeUbusiraessthatisnotrnviting. 




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